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Time is stain less and so does the world of art. There are many artists experimenting with different mediums but there is only one man who does it with the medium which is close to his heart and soul – the man of stainless steel Subodh Gupta.
Born in a small town in bihar , the journey for this artist was not easy. He has worked hard to make his mark in the world art. A young man born with talent but finding his way of expression was the challenge he faced in his early days. He did plays , painted posters of dramas and did random jobs as illustrator as well. But one day he got his path which later changed his destiny.

Patna arts college was the playground where he started experimenting. The journey from canvas to stainless steel began from this place. He loved food and it was the food of various kinds which kept his imagination alive. Wether it’s road side food or food from his friends house , the aroma of spices and Bihari cuisine was in his breath and that’s what he created later as one of his art pieces internationally.

Countless awards and the heavy duty prices of his art work is not what describes his stature as a artist or a human being , it’s the simplicity and the passion for work what makes this common man a uncommon artist.

The understanding of the grass route and the creamy layer comes naturally to Subodh Gupta and that’s what reflect seamlessly in his work. Having a companion who herself is an artist – Bharti Kher is his best admirer and his best critic. She as a wife stood when the times were not favourable and even today when he makes art pieces which goes in the history of art she is with him.

Independently Bharti Kher is also a world famous artist. She has Concord the art world all alone with her unique style of presentation and imagination which needs no bond of any reference.

Subodh moved to Delhi and shifted his style of expression. His child hood and his teenage stood by with him strongly as he created his art pieces. One after another he kept on making his work which was influenced by his surroundings. Whether it was a social thing or a cultural one , he got effected which reflected in his work.

Using stainless steel and kitchen utensils this artist also known as ” bartan boy” has made the world art captive of his unique style.
The beauty of his art is that it works for common art lovers as wells as for art critics and buyers. This lethal combination is what has made him what he is today.

My family portrait , Bihari, one glass water, cinema for ever, are some of his master pieces. This stain less steal man has proved that art is nothing but expressions which we all have , artists see them and we ignore them.

I am sure the coming years will bring more and more interesting works from Subodh Gupta and he will give us some unconventional art pieces , which will make the common man of india proud.


He happens to be among those actors who may not be very celebrated off screen, but the moment they are in front of the screen they just light up the screen.  I am talking about actor Sanjay Mishra whom you may not recognise by his name immediately, but the moment his name is replaced by his photograph, it gets an instant smile on your face. Known for his roles in ‘All the Best’, ‘Golmaal’ and ‘Phas Gaye Re Obama and, classic shows like Office Office, he is remembered more for the characters he played than he himself. To which he says, he hates being stereotyped and being slotted as a character actor, but loves the way his audience loves his characters.

The 51-year-old actor who has had a long affair with acting, unlike other actors, prefers movies over theatre as he feels movies have a wider reach than cinema.

As an actor he fascinates you because he loves to be in his skin and lets him be himself. He cooks for his crew when he is shooting (and he cooks really well), and ambles around casually and does whatever he wants to do. This is Mishra Ji’s style- casual, honest and untouched by the makeover of the glamour world. In Delhi for a shoot for an upcoming film under the Baanyan Tree Production Ltd., we engaged him for a candid chat about his role in the upcoming movie, and the offers he’s getting post the release of Ankhon Dekhi in which he has played the central character Bauji.

Q. Ankhon Dekhi is being considered a milestone movie for you? What sort of offers are you getting now?

A. While I was shooting for the Movie Phas Gaye Re Obama, actor-turned director Rajat Kapoor told me that he would   write a movie for me. When he wrote Ankhon Dekhi he approached me for the role of Bauji-the protagonist of the movie who disillusioned with his education, and the monotony of daily life decides to believe only that what he has seen, and not go be hearsay. This role has helped me break the stereotype of being limited to doing comedy roles in the industry, and offered me an opportunity to experiment my range. Infact, the movie I am doing for Baanyan Tree Production Ltd., will see me playing the role a taxi driver who is shrewd, straight forward, and has an emotionally connecting side to him, and I am enjoying essaying this role too, as in real life this is how I am, and this how I live my life.

For a brilliant film like “Aankhon Dekhi” you have to still call friends and hope that rely on the word of mouth spread, but post its release I’ve got an opportunity to work with Salman Khan in “Kick” and Yash Raj’s “Dum Laga Ke Haisha”, and I believe these big banners will give me more visibility.

Q. Director Sumit Osmand Shaw is debuting with the movie you are playing the role of taxi driver for, how did this happen?

A. When Sumit narrated the script three years back; he told me he had me in his mind for the role of the taxi driver. As I could connect with the human side of the otherwise shrewd taxi driver, I told him, only I’ll do this role for you. And now when I am executing it in real, I feel this movie has the potential to deliver good cinema.

Q. Are you a director’s man, or do you give inputs while shooting for a scene?

A. While shooting for a serial called Chanakya, I read the script three times before going for the shoot, but when I came on the sets my understanding about the character was nowhere close to what the director wanted, so after that I never read the script. I ask people to narrate it to me, and then I execute.

Q. What is acting for you? And how do you look at comedy?

A. Acting is not a profession; it’s a lifestyle for me. As far as comedy is concerned, it works because it connects instantly. It not only entertains, it is simple to understand and conveys what you want to say without directly pointing at anyone.

Q. You are so you in spite of being a part of this industry, how?

A. I could never dissociate with my real side, so whatever I am now is because of it. Through acting or otherwise I connect with people in the same way. In reel I entertain, and in real I entertain too.

By – Deepshikha

“Didi, my photograph got published in the newspaper, just like yours, on the front page.”

I turned around to face my maid and found her chopping vegetables quite deftly. Taking a bite from my chocolate bar, I asked, “Some survey thing from the NGO’s?” She replied, “No, not that. I got the first prize in my stitching school and…,” she was cut short as my mother yelled, “Soni, help me bring the clothes inside. It is raining.” Thus, she ran off leaving behind the half chopped vegetables with me in the kitchen.

I went outside, into the park. It has been long since I got soaked in these huge East Indian raindrops. An eccentric energy flows within, to be back home, after another tiring semester. My father has been transferred to Patna, again after 5 years. This repetition was the sole reason behind my new home feeling cozy and old, stuffed with all the nostalgia from the past. I stood still watching the sky waters clean the greens, I started introspecting.

This city is surely not the best place for femininity, but then where is? It is the same all round this country, the same old recipe served in different wrappers. The blasphemous acts of dowry, the outrageous behavior meted out to a female child, if only at first she is fortunate enough to open her eyes to the heroic Sun, which lights our world. The scars of a trodden housewife, the gloom of a deprived sister, the colossal uncertainties of a newly blossomed woman, the frailty of a young girl’s heart, who lives under the incessant fear of being judged by her stare, her gait, her smile, the wink of an eye or maybe just the way she breathes. Lost in the cacophony of such emotions, I dwindled inside, under the titanic pressure of ticking the ‘F’ column in the gender criteria. Almost all of us succumb to this pressure; get digressed from our womanhood and end up being a self created “Frankenstein”. In this mechanical rat-race of claiming our rights, we start imitating men and like all impostors end up being worse. We become what we despise the most. That is how the “to-be-graceful” womandom shatters and comes to its doom. I realized it has stopped raining. Pulling myself back from the deep reflection, I ran upstairs. Soni has already left. That was disappointing; I had so much to ask. With no other options left, I pestered with Ma instead.

“Ma, what is this stitching school award Soni was talking about?”

For a moment I thought I saw the colour of her face change. It was a happy glow and then Ma told me a story that will stay with me for a long time.

“It will be long.”

That was her statutory warning. But, I had all the time necessary.

“Everything started with the failure of her first marriage. She was dumped by her in-laws and had to come back to her father’s poor, dilapidated dwelling as a starving, almost dead rag. But, no one quite knew that she was made of steel. No sooner had she gained some health, she started working. One of the families, whom she served, gave her a chance to join a stitching school, which functioned under the supervision of a church.”

“So, this was some charitable institution of the missionaries?” I enquired.

“Apparently, yes”, answered Ma.

“There were problems regarding her polio. Soni was not able to use the standard sewing machine due to her bad leg. Instead, she worked with the hand machine. She progressed steadily without letting her parents have an inkle. Her destiny rolled its dice again and she was married off for the second time in the middle of her course. But, determined as she was she came back for the final test and most surprisingly topped her class, which led to the media coverage. She made her parents proud, maybe. She definitely made me proud.”

That night I was not blessed with a minute of sleep. I fidgeted on my bed, contemplating about the girl who grew up with me, who was just a maid servant in my home. Her fate made her beggarly but how valiantly had she fought. The next morning I was, to my own surprise,
desperately waiting for Soni to arrive. She brought her son along.

“Didi, my son.” She introduced.

I took the smiling toothless toddler into my arms and remarked, “He is adorable. But, why is he in a ponytail and frock?”

Soni’s eyes welled up with tears. I was at a loss. Was this a horribly wrong question? Is there a story full of pain and hurt behind her son dressed like a girl? Or did I just point a finger at her helpless poverty. What an idiot! I was about to say sorry, when she started speaking.

“Didi, my firstborn, my daughter, died the day she was born. You know how it works with us poor people. Before my second delivery, my husband threatened me that if it is a girl again, I had no place in his home. The child was a boy, my son. But, I never went back to my husband. What worth is he? If he cannot accept my daughter as his own, my son will also be mine alone. Since then, whenever he visits, I intentionally dress my son like a baby girl and have not let him touch my baby, ever.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she narrated her story. I got a taste of salt on my lips too. I cried looking at Soni, the beautiful lotus in a fungal pond. Oh! How she shines like a queen with the elephantine courage that she has shown. Will I ever be a woman like her?

Amidst all these, Ma called out, “Soni, it’s raining, hurry!” She stood up, wiped the tears off my face and said, “Thank you for teaching me how to write my name. I do not think I would have been able to ask so many questions which are not supposed to be asked by a married poor girl
like me, if I was still sticking my thumb into an inkpot to seal my consent or authority. It feels good.” And she left for her daily chores.

The glass doors were wet with the trickling drops. Caressing the playful child on my lap, I made a promise.

“I will make a woman like her, someday.”

Lights came on to illuminate the driveway when we parked our car in front of a red-brick house. I asked Holly whether someone had turned the lights on. “No, they’re automatic,” she said. I got out of the car and saw a sign, “615” mounted above the main entrance of the house. It was a number that I had been using, for more than a year, as an address to send letters to Holly from India. It was surreal that I was standing in front of it and that I was going to live in it. The house had a small grassy area in front. A couple of small steps led to the front door. I was expecting other housemates to be there, but didn’t see anyone. Holly gave me a quick tour of the place. The house had three levels—basement, first floor, and second floor. The first floor—it would be ground floor in India—of the house had a staircase in the middle that worked as a divider between the study and the living room; the wooden floors and the staircase squeaked as we walked. An old, but comfortable-looking sofa, a dining table with a slightly warped top, six chairs, several shelves—so tightly packed with books that I had to use both hands to get one out—and a television set filled the living room. One of the shelves had an assortment of bottles of alcohol, and there were at least twenty of them. The other half of the first floor was used as a study and a kitchen. There were books and papers everywhere in the study area—huge piles stacked up against the walls, on the desk, on the floor. There was a path to walk through them. Some of the area that was not covered with books and papers had cables of different colors running across the room. Holly showed me the kitchen and said that it was a common place to cook; any of the house members could cook there, provided they used their own groceries. She mentioned that all members of the house paid rent in equal parts and were supposed to share the housework.

The second floor of the house had three bedrooms, two small-sized and one large. My wife had the biggest room. After looking around I noticed there were no light bulbs attached to the walls or ceiling; the entire area was illuminated by lamps of different sizes, placed randomly around the house. I brought my luggage into our room and put my passport, wallet, and other important things into a drawer that Holly had emptied for me. The walls in her room had decorations and wall hangings that I had sent her or she had brought back from India.  While I was still taking in everything, Holly brought me a cordless phone and asked me to call my parents and tell them I had arrived in Charlottesville. She told me she had bought twenty dollars’ worth of minutes for me to call home. I had an awful time getting connected; I had to dial a toll-free number, a sixteen-digit pin number, country code, city code and then my home phone number, and I had to do all of that several times because I was too tired to get it right in one attempt. Finally, I heard my mother’s voice at the other end. I had never talked to my mother from so far away. When I told her that I had just arrived in Charlottesville, she got quiet for a minute and then said, “Did you have your breakfast?” I said it was dinner time in America and asked her what time it was in India. She said, “We are getting ready to have breakfast.” I could tell my mother was trying her best not to cry, and so was I. After talking to her for a few minutes, I promised to call her the next day and ended the conversation. Seeing tears welling up in my eyes, Holly held my hand and gave me a hug. I was torn between emotions—the sadness of being away from my parents and the excitement of being united with Holly. It had been more than fifty hours since I had left Lucknow. I couldn’t keep myself awake and soon fell asleep.

The next morning, I woke up with the sun shining in my face and people talking on the street. In India, I was used to waking up to different kinds of noises, a vegetable vendor hawking down the street, a scrap dealer shouting his lungs out, or a beggar wailing. At first, the people talking outside the house in Charlottesville sounded like one of those noises in India, but when I became fully awake, I realized they were talking in English and that I was in America. It was 9 am, and I could hear Holly’s voice downstairs. I must have been deep asleep since I didn’t hear her getting out of bed. While I was still gathering my thoughts, Holly called me downstairs for breakfast.

I went down and saw Keith and Liz, the other members of the house, sitting at the dining table. We shook hands and introduced ourselves. Keith was a broad-shouldered, tall man with brawny arms. He had a big neck with a pair of muscles that rose up from his black shirt. His long brown curls hid his jaws every time he leaned forward to grab a bite from his sandwich. He seemed friendly.

Liz was a tallish woman who had light brown hair and carried a few extra pounds. Her style of talking took some getting used to. She pronounced her vowels with a matching face expression and usually ended her sentences with a rising intonation as if she meant it to be a question. She used wild metaphors and everything she said sounded enigmatic. But, everything she said was intelligent. She seemed to be friendly and reserved at the same time. She answered most of my questions in Yeps and Nopes—not allowing me to take the conversation further. After a brief conversation with the two of them, I looked down and saw toasted round bread with a hole in the middle and a glass of cranberry juice in front of me. I bit the crisp exterior and enjoyed the chewy part in the middle of it—it was my first bagel.  I sat there and ate breakfast while Holly, Liz, and Keith watched the weather forecast on television and talked about how warm it had been recently. It reminded me of the last breakfast in India at my parents’ home where my mother had cooked gloriously greasy parathas, fried flat bread, and served them hot, straight from the pan to my plate. Since I tend to overeat she generally scolds me if I eat more than I should, but that day—since I was leaving for the United States the next day—she let me eat more than usual. She knew I would miss her food in America.

On my second day in Charlottesville, my wife invited some of her friends—Dwight, Angela, and Ann—to have dinner at our place and meet me. The couple, Dwight and Angela, had cooked and brought burgers with them. They wanted me to try some American food. Dwight was a short-haired white man, more than six feet tall, and his broad chest and fat muscular neck made him look like a soccer player. He also spoke like a soccer player—loud and abusive; he didn’t speak a sentence without a swear word in it. He served me two big greasy burgers. When I asked him about what kind of burgers they were, he said, “Ham!” It immediately brought to mind pigs rolling in sewage water. I told him that I had never eaten pork and imagining pigs in India aroused a feeling of disgust in me. He responded, “This is beef!” I told him I didn’t eat beef either and that cows are sacred in India. He was quick to say, “American cows aren’t scared. Eat it!” My jet-lagged mind was still recovering from the onslaught of strange experiences in the big land and Dwight wasn’t helping me by using harsh language.

I started picking at the burger, reluctantly, while everyone else stuffed their mouths with big chunks. After asking me about my journey from India, and whether I was enjoying my time in Charlottesville, Dwight’s girlfriend started complaining that she couldn’t find the right bra for herself. I was surprised at the sudden change of topic and totally taken aback to hear a woman talk about her bra in front of other people and especially in front of me, a man she had never met. I took a quick swig from a glass filled with water and pushed a piece of meat that I had been struggling with down my throat.  I had barely removed the glass from my lips when I heard Dwight say, “It’s because you change sizes too often.” I had never heard a man talk about his significant other’s breasts. I remember my mother often left my father and me alone for a few minutes when we went shopping for clothes. As a child, I was always curious and asked her about what she bought when she returned with a plastic bag. She would try to avoid my question but when I nagged her she’d respond, “Ladies’ products!” Although she doesn’t speak fluent English, she would use those two English words in a way that made me shut up and not ask any more questions. I grew up and learned that there are certain things about women you shouldn’t ask and joke about. It was shocking to hear Dwight mock his lady’s cup size in public.

I ignored Dwight and Angela’s conversation and tried to talk to Ann. When I asked her what she did for a living, her big round eyes sparkled as if she had been waiting for me to ask that question. She explained, with a big grin on her face, that she taught and counseled people about how to practice safe sex. She said, “Actually, I just got off work.” She opened a box full of oddly shaped objects and asked, “Would you like me to show you what I do?” Before I could say yes, she had two of those items in her hand. I had never seen or heard about any of those things before and didn’t know what they were supposed to do. Ann told me that each of them had names—Dream Maker Lunar Rabbit, Lovemoiselle Cecile, Turbo Accelerator and Safe Silicone. Still confused, I looked at her as if she was speaking a language that I didn’t understand. It began to make sense when Ann started demonstrating. I almost died from embarrassment, but Ann’s hands weren’t shy of pointing at her body parts to explain how the toys worked.

Ann reminded me of my Biology teacher in India. When we reached the part of our textbook about the reproductive system, she made us read the whole chapter in class, in front of her, making sure each student read at least one paragraph out loud. All of us desperately hoped we wouldn’t get the paragraph that described human genitalia. One of my friends did have to read that dreaded part and we teased him the whole year about how embarrassed he was and how much fun we had watching his face turn red. If that friend of mine had seen Ann demonstrating those toys to me, I am sure he would have taken his revenge and given me a hard time about how awkward I felt.

I spent the whole evening listening to Dwight’s monologue—adorned with swear words—about how he made the best burgers, his girlfriend’s frustrations about not being able to find good undergarments, and learning about the Turbo Accelerator and Safe Silicone.

My head began to ache from the information overload. The second day in America had already started to feel like a long time. I was beginning to find the place and the people foreign, and myself, dislocated. I couldn’t get anything familiar. The thing that was most unsettling was that my wife—whom I had only seen and known in India—was also acting different in the company of her friends. It seemed to me that it didn’t bother her that her friends used obscene language. She seemed to be a different person.

I thought things would change once I started working. Since my work permit was going to take at least three months to arrive, I tried to keep myself entertained by listening to Hindi music that I had brought from India and by reading books that Holly brought from the university library. Often when Holly was in her class or meeting her professor, I stayed on the second floor, confined to our room. But, sometimes after listening to eighty three songs and reading hundreds of pages from a book, I felt like doing something else.

One day when I had become delirious with boredom, I walked downstairs and decided to make an omelet and tea for myself. Liz was working on her laptop amid piles of books on her desk. I opened the refrigerator to see if there were any eggs and saw two of them sitting in the door cabinet. I broke them open and started stirring them in a bowl. Just when I put the pan on the stove, I remembered Holly telling me that people should use their own groceries. I looked at Liz to ask if those eggs were hers. Before I said anything, she said, “Go ahead!” Although she seemed busy working, she knew what I was up to. Feeling guilty about using her eggs, I offered her tea but she replied, “No thanks!” She said that in a way that suggested, “I am busy and please don’t try to talk to me.”

I had been in the United States for just a few days at the time and hadn’t quite understood the idea of personal space. I walked up to her and started looking at the books she had on her desk. She continued typing and ignored my presence. As I browsed through the books, a strange object, among several other things on her desk, caught my attention. I dropped the book in my hand and looked at the object curiously. Liz stopped typing. I saw her eyes looking at me and then quickly shifting to what I was staring at. She frantically tried to stop me as I extended my arm to grab that eight inch long, two inch wide, pink shaft-like object.  She reacted a little too slowly and I already had it my hand; Liz leaned back in her chair with an exasperated sigh and started typing again. It took me a few minutes of messing around with that thing to figure out that it was a replica of a man’s penis. Bewildered by its presence on a study table, and in immediate need of an explanation, I looked at Liz. She looked at me from the corner of her eye and then quickly bent her head down like she was looking into her lap. Feeling disgusted, I quickly threw that hideous-looking thing back on the desk as if I had accidently grabbed a dead snake. I hurried upstairs and didn’t come out of my room for the rest of the day. My attempt to socialize with Liz had come to a very sad end. We did not make eye contact for several days.  After that incident, I made sure she wasn’t home before I went downstairs to watch TV, drink a glass of water, or cook something for myself.

Keith’s room was right next to mine. He always seemed to come to pick up some stuff and then quickly leave. I wanted to talk to him and he seemed friendly, but apart from a few hellos and an exchange of smiles, we didn’t get to talk much. One day, when no one was home, I went down and made tea. I saw Keith sitting on the couch, watching TV. I asked him if he would like to try some Indian tea and he said, “I would love to.” It was great to hear him say that. It was an encouraging answer. I brought an extra cup and sat down next to him.  He told me he liked travelling and would like to go to India one day. Seeing him show interest in my country, I enthusiastically told him about all the good places to visit. After a few minutes he asked me, “Have you met your in-laws?”

I said, “Not yet, but I am going to visit Brockway soon. I will meet them for the first time then.”

He removed his lips from the cup and looked at me as if he was going to say something. I waited for him to speak. He didn’t say anything and took a sip from the cup.

I continued looking at him. “Are they nice?” he asked.

“I think so…I have talked to them on the phone…they seem to be nice,” I said, “why do you ask?”

“My grandparents aren’t nice…they don’t like my mother.”


“They are racist,” he continued, “my mom is from Portugal and they don’t consider her to be white.”

After a few minutes of awkward silence, he said, “But I hope your wife’s folks like you.”

After finishing his tea, he thanked me for offering it to him and started leaving, but just before he shut the door behind him, he pointed a finger at me and said, “Don’t let them give you a hard time.”

– The name of the writer is Deepak Singh from USA. This is an excerpt from his book “Chasing America”.

Vo Imli ka ped aur baby field

Aaj  aankh meri nam hai aur dil main ek gum hai
Na jaane chalte chalte hum kab bhagne lage
Aur peeche choot gaya vo imli ka ped aaur baby field

Subah Sabah school ke liye late ho Jana aur diary main
Remarks likhvana
Phir padhna kam aur zayada hansna hasaana

Break  main hand ball court lootna  aur reassess main tiffin churakar khana
Maths class se darna aur bina baat ke aapas main jhagadna

Bina sur ke tumhi ho mata pita tumhi ho gana
Aur drill ke samaye poori shiddat se drums bajana

Class main aage nahi per peeche kaun baithega is baat per ladna
Kholo Dabao,brush per lagao ko board per likhkar padhna

Golden baba ki loolypop aur shankar ke chole ke liye jeena
Markende ki chai aur lodged guns per bahana apna paseena

Lal,hare,peele aur neele ke liye Dotson se Takra Jana
Pehle dost ki pant sareaam utarna phir use manana

Dog ball se tooti imli jasiya swad poori duniya main nahi
Teachers ki her sahi baat galat aur galat baat lagti thi sahi

Physic aur chemistry ke formulae yaad hote the nahi per
yeh pata tha ki Kis teachar ka  kiske saath hai chakkar

Half yearly exams hon ya final
Number dene wale lagte the criminal

St.joseph’s convent bollywood tha to nda Hollywood
Michels aur loyola ke saamne xaverians hote the misunderstood

Gol ghar per chadna aur gandhi maidan main bhagna
Gurbani prayer aur aazan se alga nahi hoi thi aradhana

Aaga aa gaya halvawala aa Gaya, Tarzan my tarzen
Aree mandakini aur kimi katkar hain,zayada emotional mat ban

Jhoola jhoolna kam per lootna zayada
Podi ka ball lekar Lautane ka jhoota vaida

Vo lamba intezaar ki kab swimming pool main gote lagayainge
Lambi route ki bas main hum bacche sote jayainge

Fathers ke pyar se Khush hona per brothers ke pyar se ghabrana
Ek jut ho kar students ka her galat baat se takra Jana

Elocution ne bolna sikhaya to charity show ne khada hona
One act plays aur cricket ko apni yadoon se mat khona

Cycle stand per cycles ka aapas main takrana
Drawing copy per nenhe brush se Rangoon ko sajana

Hum  bacchon ne mutthi band ki to laga Sab saath le jayainge
Per kya pata tha waqt ke saath daudte daudte vo bikhar jayainge

Aaj apna ghar hai , parivaar hai, haansi hai , ullas hai
Phir bhi  kaheen na kaheen ek akelepan ka ahsaas hai….

Aaj bhi jab jaagte  Huye hum  sapne bunte hain
Kambakth aankhee geeli ho jaati hain,bachpan ki yaad dilati hain

Umeedain thi per kaamyab hone ka bojh na tha
Apne liye nahi balki doosron ko sabit karna hai yeh
Hosh na tha

To dostoon Aao hum Sab  us imli ke ped
Us baby field ke Khatir apne Dillon main is baat ka ghar bana lain

Ki badle fiza, badle hava, badlainge nahi hum Sab
Kyonki hum in gagan chooti imaratoon ki neev ke pathar
Hain jo Kabhi alag nahi ho sakte,kabhi alag nahi ho sakte

Zindagi bhar garmi ka na chahte Huye bhi anand uthate huye bhaiya jeete rahe hain, Bihar ho ya phir Uttar Pradesh , political sargarmi aur paseene wali sadi garmi yeh ek doosare ke saath choli daman ki tarah Jude hain.
Aise man jab bhaiya ji ko Poland jaane ka nimantran Mila to Asia laga jaise kauve ko safed kabootar ne propose kar diya ho. Saamaan bandh kar bhaiya nikal pade Warsaw , Poland ki rajdhani. Airport per utarte hi baraf ki chadar se dhanki havaipatti, aur dikha her taraf thanda thithurta din.  Taxi lekar seedha hotel, per hotel tak ka na khatam hone wala safar aaj tak yaad hai bhaiya ji ko…. English na samjahnewala taxi driver aur uske car stereo main bajte polish gaane…jheeni si barish aur ek sau das km prati ghante ki raftaar se daudti taxi….adbhut.

Ab taqreeban chaar karor ki aabadiwale is desh ko dekh kar Kathleen se nahi lagta  ki World War Two ke Duran iska namonishaan tak mit chuka tha. Dhool chat chuka yeh shaher- Warsaw aaj poori shaan se sir uthaye khada hai duniya ke saamne ‘ apne national anthem ki tarah yeh kehta hua – “Poland is not yet lost”. Bacche hon ya budhe, Sab Sadkon per thand ki parvah kiye bina zindagi jeete dikhte hain theek waise hi jaise hum hindustan main prachand garmi main bhi muskurate Nazar aate hain.

Anyways , enough of weather …ab khaane aur peene ( drinks ) ki baat karte hain. We just realised that hum Hindustani vodka Pena hi nahi jaane , khas kar bhaiya log …..hum vodka ya to paani ke saath ya phir fruit juice ke saath peete hain, per yahan pata Chala ki use to ek hi saans main gatka jaata hai…aur phir aise ek ke baad ek shots aur phir Jai ho.

polish-girls 1Polish wasiyon ko Hindustani pasand hain aur hindustaniyon ko polish
…. Well ! Khas kar ladkiyain.  There are many lucky Indians with polish wives.

Ek khas Jagah jahan Jana behan zaroori hai vo hai bollywood lounge , ek behtareen Indian experience , swadisht Indian dishes aur Indian live Sangeet, saath main hukka. Waise to tambaku Pena is ingenious to health per bhaiya use recommend kiye bina nahi the skate.

Namaste India ek aur Jagah hai jahan Indian khaane ke saath saath Indian masala bhi Milne hain. Well ! Daba kar kha aur saath main masale bhi le jao taaqi ghar per inhi dishes ko try kiya ja sake.

Amazing super markets  aur shopping complex  her Jagah ki tarah yahaan bhi hain per the best part of Poland is – here we have a history which is known to everyone as in World War Two , how Poland was bended on its knees and now see Poland how it’s has raising. Sab kuch badal Gaya hai aur badal raha hai. Waqt ki dhool Saaf chuki hai aur ab vo chamakne laga hai.

Bhaiya Bahut ghoome , Bahut si shopping bhi ki, tarah tarah ke joote, dastane, overcoats , sweaters aur caps . Kashmir aur animal ki thand ke liye paryapt. Wahan amber se bane ornaments ka adbhut kaam hai. Bracelets , rings, neck less…..kamzoor rupees Bahut kamzoor pad jaata hai in akarshak amber ornaments ke saamne.

Baagti daudti life main Mano jaise bhaiya ki zindagi main thahrav aa Gaya tha . Laga kab aisa hoga jab pardes ke  gareeb des se hum behtareen honge. Humari baatain pyaaz Aur  tamatar ke badte daamoon se uper uth kar buniyaadi dharatal per badlav lane honge. Ek Sochi samjhi pehal shayad India ko us Jagah Khama kar sake jahan bhaiya bhale hi nahi dekh playain per aane wali nai paudh dekh kar garv mahsooskar sake.